The man jerked at the sound of her voice and raised a sleepy head. His eyes widened as he saw the gun. Lyssa pulled back the hammer of the pistol just as Ian had done and was satisfied with the solid sound of the gun being cocked.
“Don’t hurt me,” the guard pleaded.
“Then take me to your prisoner. Now.”
She must have sounded as if she meant business because he hurried to do her bidding without challenge.
Ian was in one of the last stalls. Her eyes were growing adjusted to the dark, and she could see his wrists and legs were tied and a gag stuffed in his mouth. “Untie him,” she ordered.
The guard dutifully did as she commanded, starting with Ian’s wrists.
Ian was in pain. He moved stiffly, twisting and turning his wrists to get the blood circulating before removing the gag fromhis mouth. He had to go through the same process with his ankles. He staggered to his feet, using the stall wall for support.
The guard stepped back, but he wasn’t quick enough. Ian’s fist shot out and he caught the man right in the jaw. The guard flew backward against the other side of the stall where he unceremoniously slid to the ground, out cold.
Ian then turned to Lyssa.
“I’m so thankful you are safe—” she started, but her words were cut off by Ian’s hard mouth covering hers. His arms, powerful and strong, wrapped around her and he kissed her right on the lips with a startling intensity.
Fear and worry vanished from Lyssa’s mind. Who would have thought a kiss could be like this?
Yet it was over almost before it began.
“I knew you would come,” he growled out, his voice hoarse. “Knew it.” He took the pistol from her and lifted the knapsack off her back. He still wore his jacket and she noticed the sleeves were practically ripped off at the shoulder seams. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
She expected them to run directly out the door, but he stopped by one of the stalls. “Hold this.” He shoved the pistol back at her and disappeared into the darkest corner of the stable. When he reappeared, he carried a saddle and a bridle.
“What are we doing?” Lyssa asked anxiously.
“We’re leaving,” came his harsh response. His arm came around her waist, protective, familiar. His lips were close to her ear. “And we are not visiting any more of your relatives ever again.”
His dry comment surprised a hiccup of relief out of her. “I’m so glad you are alive.”
“So am I.” He opened the door to the first stall and walked in. A second later he emerged leading a ghostly gray horse by its halter. The Davidson Stallion. Ian started saddling the animal.
“You can’t!” Lyssa whispered.
“I can. Your bastard cousin owes me.” His hands moved swiftly in the dark.
“But it’s a stallion.”
“And the finest, most temperate horse I’ve ever seen. I’ve been watching him for hours. I had nothing else to do. The vicar was right. This animal is a prize and he’s mine in repayment for your cousin attempting to murder me.”
“Fielder is here.”
Ian paused. “So, that’s what it is all about,” he said as if finally fitting together the pieces of the puzzle.
“It was my stepmother,” Lyssa said. “He said so.”
Ian slipped the bit into the horse’s mouth. “He called her by name?”
“No, but he mentioned ‘her ladyship.’ ”
“If he was speaking of the Duchess, he would have said, ‘her grace.’ ”
Lyssa made an impatient sound. “Why won’t you believe me?”
Before he could answer, a groan came from the stall where the guard lay. “Hurry, Ian,” she whispered.
